Outlaw
by AsteraceaeBlue
Summary: His brother is fighting in the Holy War and there are villains at home in Huntingdon. Sherlock/Robin Hood AU
1. Chapter 1

**This is something I have been working on since before the premiere of season 3, so it's going to be pretty spoiler free. I love Sherlock and I love the lore of Robin Hood, so I figured, why not both?**

**Thank you to Nocturnias for giving this the thumbs up!**

* * *

The smell of melting wax and smoke filled the nose of Sherlock Holmes as he sat in his favorite chair in the library, eyes closed and hands tucked under his chin. He reclined into the brocade fabric. His nostril twitched at the scent, only slightly distracted from cataloguing the new information he had absorbed from the Latin chemist's text he had acquired, quite luckily. Another candle must have snuffed it. He could pick a more well-lit room for his readings and musings, he supposed, but the library suited him. Large, heavy curtains covered the one rounded, corner window and the rest was shelves of books and parchment and stone walls covered in tapestry. It was truly the most worthwhile room in the whole manor.

"M'Lord, there is news of the Earl of Huntingdon."

The words sliced through his thoughts like a blade, bringing his musings to a frustrating halt. The words themselves were enough to set him on edge, hearing the servant boy refer to his brother as though he were some stranger never known to their household. The growing deference to himself, the overuse of 'Lord' when he was addressed, increasingly made his lip curl as it became apparent those around him were already resigning themselves to a transition of power. Sherlock may not have felt any great filial love for his brother, but he would not abide the attitude that Mycroft could be considered as good as dead, his bones bleaching in the Arabian Desert.

"What news?" he ground out.

The boy started and Sherlock smiled inwardly. At twenty years of age, his voice had already deepened to an intimidating timbre and he enjoyed using it to his advantage.

"The enemy has proved strong, m'Lord," the boy squeaked out. "His Highness' army is said to be weakened."

"Said by whom?"

"Returning soldiers, m'Lord," the boy said. "Many have been sent home, too injured to fight. They say the Earl stayed on with weakened numbers. They say only God's mercy will have saved them. They say -"

"God has nothing to do with it," Sherlock said furiously, standing from his chair and dramatically sweeping his green velvet cape behind him as he swept past the servant. The boy sputtered behind him.

"But m'Lord, surely you believe God will be on our side?"

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned a sharp eye on the boy.

"Every army believes God is on their side, even the Moors," he told him evenly. "The side that waits for His assistance crumbles to the side that makes their own miracles. You would do well to remember that. The crusades are a failed endeavor and anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is an idiot."

Without waiting for a response, he left the room and glided purposefully through the main hall, his boots echoing on the stone. It had been two years since his brother had left Anglia for the war with the Moors, recruited by the king himself to leave his duties as Earl and lead an army. That was the price to pay for being counselor in court, one of the most powerful and intelligent men in the land, and a fighter. If it had been Mycroft on the throne, the war would not even be occurring. He was intelligent enough to know when losses were to be cut. Regrettably, he owed all duty to the crown.

And he left his little brother to manage what was left behind.

Sherlock took on the duties with reluctance, but carried it well out of a respect for Mycroft that he would never admit to a single soul. Though he refused to move into the castle. The manor house was his home and there he would stay. Far less to scatter his attention when he was already struggling with the mundane day to day business of being the stand-in to the Earl. Fortunately for everyone involved, Mycroft had successfully coaxed him away from the frantically hushed use of alkaloids before his leaving, though the urge remained from time to time. Disaster would have ensued were it not for that.

"I'm out for the afternoon," he called to whatever servant may have been in the vicinity as he strode out the entrance to the manor and onto the lane.

The day was fine and a warm breeze blew down the main road, making his tousled hair even more unruly. He preferred walking when he could, finding it more conducive to thinking. Nearby lords and ladies were often scandalized with his 'peasant-like' behavior, but he couldn't be brought to care much about it when he knew what he did about them. Particularly whose bedchambers they were all rotating into.

It was a mere two miles into town and once he reached the edges it was easy to spot the flurry of activity around the newly returned soldiers. Many had the vacant eyes of individuals who had seen too much. They were lucky compared to those few who had survived missing a limb. Or rather, missing a finger or bit of an arm. Those who could not walk did not come back, Sherlock noted again with a grimace.

"Lord Sherlock."

He turned to see Sheriff Lestrade walking towards him, his grey cloak billowing out behind him and his black boots covered in mud.

"Chasing that band of young thieves to the river again?" he observed.

Lestrade stopped mid stride and gave a surprised laugh.

"You could pry the secrets out of a mute," he said, shaking his head.

"The mutes are often most eager to share their secrets," Sherlock mused. "It's the ones that can talk and choose falsehoods that you should worry about. The trees."

"What?"

"Look up the next time you run after them," Sherlock advised, looking down at the mud caked boots. "You're too busy with the ground."

"I offer again to put you in my employ. Just say the word."

"Perhaps when I am not occupied with running a county."

They walked together towards the group of haggard soldiers, surrounded by curious children and wary villagers. The town friar and women of the cloth were administering food and clean linens, no doubt encouraging the men to find good solid work as soon as possible. Sherlock's eye landed on a man close by, perhaps six years older than himself, shorter, with light hair. He looked just slightly less hollow than the rest, shifting the bowl of stew in his hands and looking about with a set mouth. He shuffled awkwardly as he stood, trying to balance the bowl and a crutch against his side.

"Unfortunate for a surgeon to wind up wounded," Sherlock commented with a pointed look at the man's leg. His eyes traveled up to his torso. "Though it's your shoulder that took the blade. Interesting."

"How…how in God's name did you know?..."

"You carry that shoulder a bit higher than the other, common indication of damaged tissue and subconsciously tensing from the wound. Not to mention the arm is not held correctly, almost as though it still pains you to straighten it. As to your being a surgeon, no insult intended, but you do not fit the physical specifications of a soldier of his Highness' army."

"I fought," the man said defensively.

"No one said you didn't," Sherlock replied with a hint of a smile.

The man gaped at him for a moment before the corner of his mouth turned up.

"You'll hang for a witch if you're not careful," he said. "That was truly magic."

"Not a bit. There are many reasons I may hang, but witchcraft will not be one of them."

"John Watson," the man said, holding out his hand in greeting.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, taking the offered hand firmly. A look of recognition crossed the older man's face.

"Brother to the Earl," John said. "I'm sorry we could not bring you better news, sir."

"Don't start with titles and pleasantries, please, it's unbecoming," Sherlock instructed. He nodded towards the sheriff. "Sheriff Lestrade. Keeps the peace well enough in my land."

"Honored," John said with a tilt of his head which Lestrade returned.

"You are not from Huntingdon?" Sherlock ventured.

"No, though the last I knew I had an uncle here," John informed him, looking a bit grieved. "Ran a chemist's shop. I find out this morning that he is two years dead."

"As are your chances of a position with him," Sherlock stated.

"You remain very intuitive," John said with a resigned sigh.

Sherlock regarded the man for a few moments. With a wounded shoulder and a limp, he hardly stood a fair chance on his own and could very likely turn beggar in a few years' time if luck was not on his side. Fortunately for John Watson, Sherlock was quite adept at fortuitous situations.

"Can you walk a mile?" he asked, though he was fairly certain of the answer.

"As long as it's not towards the desert, I could walk a hundred," John said.

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel, keeping his usually swift gait to a more reasonable speed to allow the surgeon to keep up. John offered a quick goodbye to Lestrade before hurrying after him. He headed out of the square and down the main road that was lined on one side with pasture and on the other with woodland.

"Master Hooper has a practice and is invaluable to Huntingdon," he informed his companion. "An ingenious physician, but sadly the only one within a day's ride."

"And he is looking for a partner?"

"If his belly aching in town has been any indication, yes."

The walk went surprisingly quickly, with John keeping pace and looking less tired as they moved and talked. Sherlock informed him of the important aspects of town as well as the surrounding areas, pointing to each cottage and house as they passed by and providing intimate details of the dwellers. In no time at all, they were leaving the main road and walking up a short path to a large brick farmhouse, scrubbed bright and surrounded by trees heavy with late summer leaves. A few chickens clucked in the yard and somewhere a dog barked.

"The Hooper farm," Sherlock explained, marching right up to the door. "His wife passed several years ago and has just the one child left to him."

He rapped on the door to the farmhouse and they immediately heard the rapid footfalls of someone rushing to the door. The heavy wood was thrown back and they were met with the youthful face of a girl of sixteen, wide brown eyes looking at them in surprise as she hurriedly swept her wild, long hair away from her face. Her pale pink gown mimicked the fashion of the day, though the sleeves were shortened and tightened for practicality, the bodice was higher than most young ladies' and the hem showed signs of time spent outside. Overall, the effect was rather childlike despite the figure of the young women inside the fabric.

"Ah, Margaretta," Sherlock said with familiarity. "Is your father at home?"

"Yes," she replied quickly. "He's just down to his library at the moment. Shall I fetch him for you, Sher – ahm, s-sir…m'Lord?"

"Presently, yes," Sherlock said with a quick smile. "And do remember to invite us in."

"Right, yes, of course."

The poor girl nearly tripped over her skirts backing up to allow them room to come in, looking grateful to flee on the spot as the housemaid took over in showing the two men to the sitting room and offering food and drink. John chuckled as they settled on a plush lounge in front of a warming fire.

"Bit of a nervous thing, isn't she?" he commented.

"The maid? No, I should think not."

"No, the girl."

"Margaretta," Sherlock corrected. "Like a baby deer from the moment they first tightened the laces around her waist two years ago. I've known her since childhood."

"And that's an excuse for talking so indelicately about her?" John said with a bit of embarrassment. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Indelicately?" he asked, confused.

The question was left unanswered as the master of the house entered the room, a white smock tied around his linen shirt and dark trousers. He had the same warm brown eyes as his daughter, though his light hair had begun to turn silver. He made a neat, cheerful bow to them as he approached.

"My Lord," he said happily. "It is an honor. What brings you on your visit this day?"

"I've heard mention that you are in need of an assistant for your practice, Hooper," Sherlock said, gesturing for the physician to sit.

"That's quite right," the older gentleman said as he did so. "With our county growing, my attentions are stretched thin. My Molly tries to help, bless her, but there's only so much a girl can do, smart as she is."

"Understandable," Sherlock nodded. He then tilted his head towards his companion. "John Watson, recently home from his Majesty's war where he acted as surgeon."

Master Hooper's eyes lit up at the news and he looked to John with interest.

"And would you be looking for a position, sir?" he asked.

"If it would please you, I would be indebted," John said, straightening up in all sincerity.

"Wonderful," Hooped clapped his hands together. "Marvelous! Well, sir, well, I imagine you are tired from your day, I do not wish to flood you with my words until you are refreshed. Shall we meet in the morning to discuss the whole of it?"

At Sherlock's cue, John and Hooper stood, shaking hands congenially.

"That would be very good," the surgeon said with a smile.

With goodbyes said, John and Sherlock were shown out. They had barely made it to the road when a light voice called out.

"M'Lord!"

They turned to see Margaretta traipsing after them and holding some bundle of plants and a small white pouch in her hand. She reached them, cheeks tinged pink, and held the bundle out to Sherlock.

"The fennel and blackberry you wanted. Also the willow bark. Do be careful with your experiments. A few blackberry leaves should soothe the burns."

With that, she made a modest curtsey and turned back to the house. John turned a curious eye on his new companion.

"Experiments?"

"Hardly anything to worry about. Shall we?"

* * *

The late summer sun was growing large on the horizon when they ambled back to the manor house, throwing an almost blinding light onto the stone edifice. It was not enough to blind Sherlock to the sight of his brother's steward and counselor, James Moriarty, standing at the entrance and looking bored with life as always in his crimson tunic and black velvet mantle, twisting the garnet ring on his finger. A squire stood nearby, the reins of Moriarty's roan stallion in his hands.

"M'Lord," Moriarty said, taking the minimal effort to bow before resuming his casual stance. "You have no doubt heard the news from the war."

"Indeed, and so have you, or why else would you be here?" Sherlock drawled, striding quickly by the other man and towards the door to his home. It was opened on cue by one of his servants as he approached.

"It is so, you are correct," Moriarty replied, following. "I find myself in the position of needing to offer you counsel on a certain matter -"

Sherlock swung around suddenly as he and John made their way inside, blocking Moriarty in the arch of the doorway.

"I don't recall inviting you in," he said curtly.

The steward flicked his eyes over Sherlock's face, his gaze cold for a moment before morphing into an expression of neutrality. His eyes remained dark, distant.

"There is a matter that is of the utmost importance…m'Lord."

"It can wait til the morrow," Sherlock said firmly. "I am tired and in need of food."

He nodded to his servant who promptly shut the door and bolted it. His servants were nothing if not accommodating to his whims of impropriety.

"Dinner, please, Sam," he instructed his servant. "In the parlour. Ale as well."

"Very good, sir," Sam said, turning to procure the requested items.

John followed quickly as Sherlock led him through the entrance hall and into the great hall, passing quickly by a grand, long table, cold fireplace, and several rich tapestries. Through another door and small hall and they were in a comfortable room situated with grand chairs, side tables, and many decorations. Several large windows looked out onto extensive grounds, dropping off into the woods. A roaring fire was going in the stone fireplace, keeping the room perfectly warm with the cool of evening. Sherlock crossed to a high backed chair and began to unfasten the clasps of his cloak.

"Your lodgings shall be here until you find something suitable for yourself," Sherlock told John as he removed the cloak and draped it lazily over the back of the chair. He sat down and propped his boots on a stool by the fire, slouching and indicating that John should make himself comfortable. "Stay as long as you desire. The place has been far too empty with just myself."

"No lady of the house, then?" John asked as he abandoned his own cape and mimicked Sherlock's repose.

Sherlock snorted and pushed at the sleeves of his linen shirt.

"Not if I can help it."

"It would make the place less empty," John said with a smirk.

"And more tedious. I find most women to be far too concerned with trivial things to be of any use or diversion in my home," he said simply. "No, it is my brother's duty as Earl to produce a family. Not mine."

"An interesting position."

"Not one you share, I gather?"

"No, I can't say that I do," John said amiably. "But each man is to live his life as he sees fit."

Sherlock looked at him with happy regard. Footsteps sounded in the hall and Sam and an older woman with a kind face and greying hair appeared, carrying platters of roast chicken, potatoes, bread, and apples and tankards of ale. Though Sam delivered the meal with respectful silence, the woman hovered in a motherly way as she made sure they had everything they needed.

"A new friend, Sherlock?" she asked with a smile.

"John Watson. He'll be taking a position with Master Hooper," he said in easy explanation.

"Oh that's very nice indeed," she said happily before leaving the room.

"Martha," Sherlock said to fill John in, nodding after her. "She used to be my nurse when I was young. I kept her on when her husband proved to be less than suitable."

The supper was shared over tales of the war and discussion of all things outside of Anglia. Sherlock found him to be a most agreeable companion, sharing in an interest of foreign cultures without the dire loyalty to the crown that most people possessed. It was enough to take his mind off the worry over the war and his brother's safety.

The next morning, John hurried off to the Hooper farm just after sunrise, eager to be onto the promise of a position. Sherlock dressed and breakfasted late, staying in the hall to linger over his spiced wine. When Sam entered to announce Moriarty, he regretted lingering quite so long. He had no choice but to receive the man.

"M'Lord," Moriarty entered with the same cool manner, a parchment tucked under his arm. "With the news of the turn of the war, I'm afraid we can no longer put off this conversation."

"Oh God, get on with it," Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes in annoyance.

"Your brother the Earl has no family, no heir. You stand to inherit."

"He's not dead yet."

"Of course he's not," Moriarty said with the grimy air of veiled sarcasm that Sherlock hated. "But we should be prepared in the event that something happens. And, God forbid, if something were to happen to you -"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at that, at once on high alert and focused on the man standing in his home.

"What on earth would happen to me?" he demanded.

Moriarty gave an affected little shrug, looking the innocent.

"If your Lordship has no plans to take a wife, arrangements need to be made."

"How dare you discuss my personal intentions," Sherlock growled, standing up to his full height. "You are dismissed."

"I only suggest -"

"Out!" he roared, flinging his hand towards the hall entrance.

To his great dismay, Moriarty remained calm, looking pityingly at him before his mouth turned up in a wry grin and he slowly walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and followed! I'm glad it's enjoyable :)**

* * *

The two months that followed found Sherlock and John settled into a comfortable routine. John would spend his days as partner to Master Hooper, with Sherlock dropping in when his time allowed. When not occupied with doctoring, Sherlock would engage John in assisting with his experiments. At first slightly wary of the reckless way Sherlock would utilize fire and other methods to extract oils and vapors from plant and mineral, John eventually grew used to the experimentation. True to Molly Hooper's words, Sherlock was often heedless to the dangers of his work and on more than one occasion would send up a string of language John had not heard since the battlefield, spending the evening nursing burns. The only thing that continued to startle him was Sherlock's custom of practicing his archery in the great hall when the weather proved too unfavorable to be outside. He looked twice before stepping foot into the room when it was raining.

Sherlock was pleased to have someone around who tolerated, if not admired, his habits and activities. It was most encouraging to see John's health and constitution improve in his presence, slowly shirking the use of a crutch and regaining confidence. He was also glad of the excuse to accompany John to the Hooper farm, as Molly's work with her father had limited her ability to bring him useful herbs and plants. She really did have a knack for knowing exactly what he was in need of; the only girl he had known who had learned to read and write and put it to use. If only she could manage to bring them their wine in the conservatory without stumbling over herself. She had always been an awkward girl, but her nerves had increased ever since her dresses had taken a womanly shape. Of course, that would be the kind of observation John would turn red at and huff something about indecency.

The day that found Sherlock stepping outside of his duties as leader of the county started with Molly Hooper. After breakfasting, he felt the need for fresh air, having spent the past two days shut in reading. His ramble took him to the woods, observing the world around him. The sound of humming reached his ears and he quickly looked around for the source. He caught sight of her long hair, tied neatly back with a white ribbon, as she knelt on the ground. Her body was obscured by a fawn brown cloak, but he could see her delicate arm reaching out to pull dandelions from the ground in front of her and place them in her basket.

When he was nearly upon her and she hadn't noticed his presence, he cleared his throat.

She spun around, almost upsetting her basket, her hand to her chest as it rose and fell rapidly.

"Molly," he greeted.

"Sherlock," she said with a laugh. "You frightened me half to death."

He ignored the intimate use of his name, finding that he enjoyed the sound of it. Not to mention she said it with far more confidence than she managed with his official titles.

"Gathering for your father?" he asked, gesturing to the basket filled with root and stems.

"Yes," she said, standing and brushing off her green skirts. "Widow Greyson has had complaints of the stomach again. Dandelion is the only thing that seems to help her. Although, if you ask me, it would help more if she would use a lighter hand when it comes to ale -"

She stopped abruptly and looked apologetically at him, knowing she was engaging in idle gossip. He smiled, finding it rather amusing.

"I, I don't mean to take up your time, sir," she said quickly.

"Not at all," he said, standing back and holding his arm out in invitation for her to walk with him. "If you've finished, I can accompany you home."

Molly smiled and ducked her head, walking towards him but keeping a decent amount of space between them as they headed towards the main road. Quiet descended on them and Sherlock knew he was obligated to engage her in polite conversation. He grimaced inwardly at that thought. It was why he hated the company of women the majority of the time – one was never able to speak of anything other than what was considered polite.

"John is quite happy in the practice," he said, trying to keep the boredom out of his voice.

"Oh yes," she replied, looking up at him. "And father is so grateful to you, and to John. He is a perfect fit."

"A permanent fixture, then."

"We do hope so."

"And when shall we expect your marriage?"

The words were spoken before he knew what he was saying. He only slightly regretted them, mostly because of the scandalized way she looked at him. He knew he was in for a fit.

"Marriage?" she said, horrified.

"Yes," he replied, studying the sky as they emerged from the woods. "It would solidify everything."

"Sir, I can assure you, nothing of the sort will be happening. I don't know what falsehoods you may have heard, but John's presence in our home is nothing less than proper," Molly said hotly.

"Your lowered neckline is surely not for your own amusement."

"I – I beg your pardon?"

"You don't wish to marry?" he asked, disregarding her embarrassment.

"Certainly not for convenience," she snapped with a boldly furious look in his direction.

"For _love_ then?" he asked with a mocking emphasis on the word. Her gaze whipped forward to the road ahead and she flushed pink.

"I don't think that's quite proper to talk about, sir," she said evenly.

He was about to chastise her for the formality when a scream ripped through the air. Both heads turned towards a nearby cottage, set back a ways from the road. Sherlock knew it belonged to a small family whose patriarch did odd jobs fixing homes and buildings; mostly, they farmed and kept to themselves.

When the first scream was succeeded by wails and sobbing, Sherlock and Molly took off down the road and towards the cottage. The door was open and Sherlock bolted inside to find the wife fallen to the floor beside a wooden crate in the middle of the room. It took two steps towards it to see that the contents were what had sent the woman into fits. Her husband's body was crammed inside, blue and stiff. Molly gasped beside him, her hand flying to her mouth before she went to the poor woman and knelt with her.

"It's Edward," the woman wailed, balling her dusty skirts into her fists.

"Take her outside," Sherlock ordered. "Stay with her and don't let anyone else in. I'll fetch the Sheriff and your father."

* * *

The small cottage was crowded with people, all centered around the crate. Molly had ushered the children outside and was keeping them distracted from the tragedy unfolding inside. Sheriff Lestrade crouched down, inspecting the body of the dead man with Master Hooper looking over his shoulder. Sherlock and John stood in front of his now-widow who was doing everything in her power to hold back the tears and stay upright in her chair.

"You noticed nothing amiss when you returned from town, Jane?" John asked gently.

"It's like I told you, sir," she sighed heavily. "I come back from buyin' my sewing needles. Walked 'round back to let the chickens out, came in to return the money pouch, and seen the crate lyin' there…door wide open and not a soul around."

"Edward was gone early this morning?" Lestrade asked, straightening and taking a few steps to join them.

Jane nodded, wiping at her eyes.

"Just before sunrise. Had some business to attend to."

"What business?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't tell me, m'Lord. I figured it had to do with a job."

Sherlock absorbed the information and turned his gaze to the crate. The way the man was oriented would give anyone a shock, let alone his wife. Legs bent at an unnatural angle in an effort to fit the body, his head turned awkwardly to fix his dead gaze upwards at anyone unfortunate enough to look inside. He had been a strong man, with muscles like a bull, but even tempered from what Sherlock could recall.

"Was he having problems with anyone in the county?" Lestrade continued his line of questioning. "Any rivalries?"

"None, sir. Edward was beloved by everyone he knew."

"Where are his shoes?" Sherlock interjected.

Every head in the room turned to face him. He took in their surprise and found himself shocked that no one had noticed.

"He is barefoot," he clarified impatiently, pointing down towards the man's bare, but clean, feet. "Surely he was in the habit of wearing boots."

"I…yes, of course he was," Jane agreed quickly. "Was wearin' them when he left…I hadn't even noticed…"

"Is there anything else you may have failed to notice?" Sherlock pressed. "Or are you too unobservant in your own home -"

"What my friend would like to ask," John interrupted firmly, "is if there is anything you may have remembered now that the shock is not so bad. Is anything amiss in the house? Anything at all?"

"Now, now that I think on it…Y-yes, sir. Our money pouch…four pennies are gone," she said with a pitiable hiccup. "You don't think…no one would have the mind to do that to Edward for four pennies, would they? It's a pittance."

"Not too sure, ma'am," Lestrade said with a gentle smile.

With promises to help the family in the trying time, the men loaded the crate onto Master Hooper's wagon. Having come on the wagon, John remained in the back next to the crate to return to town to assist the physician. Molly stopped to offer Jane a comforting hug and kiss the children on the head before climbing up beside her father. She looked back at Sherlock as the horses began to plod forward, her expression filled with worry.

Lestrade came to his side, pulling on his leather gloves as they watched the wagon make its way down the road.

"We have a villain in our midst," he said, his jaw working tensely.

"No doubt of that," Sherlock agreed. "And it is something I won't tolerate."

The anger and the protectiveness he felt towards his county he could admit to Lestrade. The inexplicable excitement he felt at the promise of the hunt laid out before him, he would not.

* * *

The coldness of the stone room adjacent to Hooper's practice and chemist's shop in town provided the needed environment for the inspection of the dead man. By the time Sherlock had joined them, a preliminary look had already been undertaken. Lain out on a wooden table and covered with a modest cloth, he could easily see details that had escaped him in the cottage. Even without the training of a physician, he recognized the marks of a fight. Lord knew he had been in enough scrapes as a boy.

"He was strangled, m'Lord," Hooper said, pointing to the dark bruises around the man's neck that held the distinct shape of fingers.

"I can attest to that," John added with a dark look. "I've seen the like more than I care to remember in the desert."

"It is a matter of who did it, now," Sherlock told them. "Fortunately, we are certain of two things beyond how he died."

"What are those?" John asked.

"One, whoever killed him, knew him. That is the only way to explain the intimate nature of his body being delivered back to his home. Two, his boots will likely lead us to the guilty man."

"His boots?" Hooped said, thoroughly confused.

"His feet are clean, therefore he did not lose his boots prior to his death. If they were removed by our villain, there is a very clear reason," Sherlock told them surely. Hardly missing a beat, he glanced towards the door and added, "You may as well come in, Margaretta, you've overheard far too much to continue lurking in the doorway."

A surprised little squeak came from the hall outside and a few moments later Molly stepped in. Her father sighed but looked at her with resigned affection. Though clearly undisturbed by the presence of the body on the table, she hovered near the door and kept her hands tightly clasped in front of her.

"I trust we can count on your discretion?" Sherlock asked her. She nodded quickly. "Good. Hooper, you've taken note of all the marks?"

"Aye, m'Lord," the physician assured him. "Nothing more to be done for him now."

"Very well. John, if you're no longer needed, we can make our way back to the manor. The day grows late."

"Go on, John," Hooper said with a smile. John nodded and tossed his cloak around his shoulders, following Sherlock out the door and hearing Hooper's fading instructions to his daughter. "Molly, my girl, help me with his clothes. And when we're done, fetch some water to clean him up."

Once on the road and clear of anyone who may overhear, Sherlock unloaded the thoughts burdening his mind on the events of the day.

"I have not encountered such a mystery before, John," he admitted, his eyes narrowed and focused on the horizon of the road. "So many things are clear about it, and yet the answer is shrouded."

"I must admit, I have never seen such a thing, not even in battle," John replied. "Is violence uncommon to the county?"

"We have had our share of murders, proud vengeance enacted and drunken tempers unchecked. This is something entirely new – surely the result of a dark mind."

With his concerns voiced, Sherlock fell into silence and the walk back to the manor was quiet, contemplative. Supper was taken in the parlour, though he hardly touched the meal Martha had brought them. His mind was too preoccupied with trying to find the ties in the information he had. Again, he felt the sense of enthusiasm that he knew was slightly undesirable, but was unable to help it. His brother was one of the top minds in a world lacking in intelligence, even amongst those fortunate enough to obtain an education. He knew that he followed in those footsteps, but up until this point he had only found an interest in academic writings, personal experimentation, and the occasional amusement of observing his fellow countrymen. The tragedy of the day piqued his interest like nothing else he had come across.

His thoughts were broken by Sam's voice.

"Margaretta Hooper, m'Lord," he announced.

Sherlock looked up and noticed that supper had been cleared and the fire lit while he had been pondering. John was sitting up from a slouch in his chair, clearly waking up from a doze.

Molly entered the room, looking slightly winded and showing marks of having ridden to the manor in some haste. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of a pair of leather boots dangling from her hands. She held them out to him with a smile on her face.

"I found…found them down by the stream when I was fetching water," she said, trying to catch her breath.

The excitement he felt was quickly quelled, trying not to appear too eager at the discovery.

"They could be anybody's," he said calmly, though he rose from his chair to investigate.

"Perhaps," Molly said. "But why would they be hidden beneath branches and grasses? I was fortunate enough to trip over them."

Sherlock held back a smirk at the thought that her clumsiness could very well have produced such an important item. Taking the boots from her, he crossed the room to place them on a small table and was joined by his companions as he looked at them carefully. They were not high quality, though they were cared for well, showing no signs that they could have been left by the stream for a long time at all. As he circled the table and inspected the bottoms of the boots, something caught his eye. Quickly grabbing a nearby pen knife, he scraped at the crook of the boot where sole met heel.

John sniffed and made a face.

"Is that manure?" he asked.

"Pig, as a matter of fact, given the contents," Sherlock muttered, distracted as he took an inventory of the seeds embedded in the droppings. "Apple, pear…oh. Oh!"

As he pried the clot apart, his eyes landed on a seed he had only seen once in his life. It took a moment to recall how he knew it, but once his mind had provided the answer it was easy to place. His lips pulled back in a smile as he pieced together the likely path of the man's last hours.

He would have to be careful with how he handled the implications of what he now knew. Morning would be the absolute earliest he would risk acting.

"Sherlock," John murmured, sounding worried.

"I'll be in my chambers," he said quickly, straightening to leave the room.

"I should be on my way home. Father might worry."

He heard Molly's hesitant words as he strode towards the door, as well as John's immediate offer to escort her. His lip twitched a bit at the realization that, as Lord, he should have been the one to ensure her safe travels, but it was too late to turn around and fix his mistake.

* * *

For a great many months, Sherlock had managed to avoid stepping foot inside his family's castle home, conducting business of the county from his manor. It gave him an odd satisfaction to make his brother's staff and counselors journey to him, enforcing a power than he knew many were not yet keen to give to him. Sadly, he was now forced to stand in the great hall of the stuffy, unfriendly residence of the Holmes legacy, waiting for a servant to announce him. He shifted uncomfortably in his stiff linens and leather trousers, not used to wearing his best clothing. The green velvet cloak was the sole piece of comfort. Well, that and the sword he had fastened fastidiously about his hips.

Nothing was neglected in Mycroft's absence; that could be said with a certainty. The stone floor was spotless, the tapestries did not show a hint of dust, and the fireplace was laid for the evening's fire.

_Good_, he thought. It was what he was counting on. No luxury ignored.

The servant came back into the hall, full of pomp.

"Sir James is not in his quarters at present, m'Lord," he said. "Perhaps you would like to leave word."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said with a smile that he quickly dropped, proceeding to stride past him and through to the halls.

He may not reside in the castle anymore, but that did not mean he was no longer at liberty to walk about as he pleased. Easily pushing open the door to the steward's chambers, he took quick stock of the room. He crossed to the desk where the ledgers were kept and glanced at the entries, turning back a page when he did not see what he was looking for.

"Ah ha," he muttered.

The entry was recent, the stain of the ink darker and more defined than the others. Tax collections from the last fortnight, four pennies collected from Edward's household. His mouth turned down angrily.

Four blessed pennies.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the door and he met the carefully schooled face of Moriarty and his personal hound, Sebastian. The blood boiled under his skin at the sight of them.

"M'Lord, I had not expected you today," the shorter man said, his body exuding forced composure at the intrusion.

"I do like to check the ledgers from time to time," Sherlock said, his voice low.

"Everything is in order, I can assure you. All taxes collected, all bills paid," Moriarty told him, his eyes narrowing.

"By whatever means necessary, I take it," Sherlock said slowly. He took a few careful steps towards the center of the room, allowing his hand to dip into a bowl of fruit presented prominently on the table and extracting a small, brown treat. "The county must be doing well…I was without a need to shave the last time we enjoyed dates."

He popped it into his mouth and felt his teeth clamp around the seed as he left the room. The sweetness of the dried fruit was unsatisfactory and he palmed the seed quickly and spat the pulp out the moment he was outside. He was glad he had chosen to ride to the estate; it made the trip to town much quicker and he was at the jailhouse in no time. Lestrade was somewhat less than willing to find as much outrage in the situation as Sherlock.

"A fruit pip and an inky ledger?" he asked with doubt, running a hand along his jaw in contemplation. "I admit, you notice a great deal more than most, but I would lose my head if I went after his Lordship's counselor and was proved wrong."

"You would have my word on your side," Sherlock said emphatically.

Lestrade considered him and Sherlock fought the urge to shake sense into the man.

"You'll allow me time to think on it?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, though he felt frustrating disappointment. When he returned to the manor, a message was waiting for him from John, explaining that Anne Burbidge had started labor pains and was faring poorly. They had called for a physician's assistance and he was not expecting to return home until the morrow. On the one hand, he was glad to have the solitude to sulk. On the other, it would have been nice to purge his frustrations to his friend.

The certainty that Moriarty and Sebastian had bloodied their hands in the name of collecting a pathetic tax left him seeing red. He'd paid little attention to the going's on of the county prior to his brother leaving for the war, but he could not say he had ever had an easy feeling about the steward. Why Mycroft had entrusted this man to run his estate was beyond him at this point. Other Lords enacted harsh punishment for late taxes, but that had never been the way for Mycroft.

What Moriarty had done was…despicable.

Darkness had fallen when a resounding knock boomed from the main door. His eyes flicked up and he felt a twisting in his stomach at the sound. In mere moments, before Sam had a chance to announce them, Moriarty and Sebastian entered his parlour with four palace knights flanking them. He barely spared a glance for them as they marched purposefully into the room, keeping his chin propped casually in one hand as he slouched in his chair.

Moriarty made a show of unfurling a parchment and a devilish smile spread across his face as he read from it.

"Sir Sherlock of Huntingdon: you are hereby ordered by His Majesty, the King of England, to serve in the war, to fight for the crown and for the good Christian world."

"How convenient," he said dully, though inside his heart was pounding.

"It is a command not to be ignored," Moriarty advised darkly.

"Are you not frightened of the consequences that will rain down on you when my brother finds out what you are doing? When the crown finds out?" Sherlock demanded, standing irritably and facing the men.

"You will be well on your way to the Moors by the time word reaches anyone," Moriarty said smoothly, taking deliberate steps towards him. "If they are still alive to do anything about it. No one frightens me, m'Lord…not even the crown."

"I'm beginning to think you fancy seeing yourself wearing one."

"I would look stunning, I can assure you."

With that, Moriarty nodded towards the others and in one swift movement Sebastian had clubbed him across the back of the head while two of the knights gripped at his arms. His head swam and he struggled to maintain his dignity in face of the villain.

"I have one question for you," Sherlock growled, using every last ounce of strength to hold his head up.

"And that is?"

"Why did you remove the boots?"

Moriarty stared at him for a few moments before a decidedly amused grin spread across his face. His dark, cold eyes crinkled unnaturally with the action and he leaned forward so that his nose was inches from Sherlock's. His voice was low and deceptively melodic when he answered.

"So that he would fit in the box, you fool."


	3. Chapter 3

There was little to describe the two years after being forced to join the crumbling crusade – his abduction, really, when it came right down to it – other than torture. After being knocked out cold in his own home, Sherlock had woken in the bowels of a ship, bound amongst a dozen other men and headed towards the Holy Land. Adding insult to injury, he discovered from the rag-tag collection of men that each shire had been obligated to "volunteer" additional soldiers. Moriarty had taken it upon himself to make sure Sherlock was part of the flock. Well placed favors and bribes had earned Moriarty loyalty, sometimes at the tip of a sword's blade, from the powerful and wealthy – or so his captors told him with mocking laughter.

He seethed at the thought. Revenge wormed its way into his mind from the first. The amount of time he dreamed of the traitor's head on a stake was likely unhealthy.

The only gem to be found in the grit of his situation was that he got to see the world he had read about at last. It was hardly consolation. They rode and marched at an agonizing pace for days on end, hardly resting. Even if he had had the strength and energy to attempt an escape, he was constantly watched – a final ploy of Moriarty's, if he had to bet. There was no chance for him to try to contact his brother and there was little doubt news of his induction as a soldier had conveniently gotten lost on the way to his Majesty's camp.

Sherlock had the benefit of a good constitution and a comfortable upbringing on his side and he realized how very lucky he was to have started so strongly. Out of the fifty men at the start, only thirty-two actually made it to see Jerusalem. As he expected, the war was very nearly lost. They spent more time languishing in tents and enjoying the company in the samovar than they did practicing drills. To the great amusement of his fellow soldiers, he rarely indulged. The exception was a dark haired, blue eyed gypsy of a woman who was as particular and discreet about who was allowed in her company as he was. Not knowing what his fate would be and realizing that he very well may never escape his imprisonment, he allowed her to bring him fully into manhood. His brother would have been so proud.

One year after they reached the desert, Sherlock was tanned, full-bearded, and far more inclined to appreciate the ways of the people in that part of the world than spit on them. He also found his moment to escape it all. Some of the men had been sent on a messenger errand to neighboring troops and his handlers saw the reduced number as an opportunity to imbibe and find pleasures outside of the encampment. Not willing to let their charge out of sight, they dragged him along.

He was carefully watching their progression of gluttony and drunkenness when he felt a hand caress his arm. He looked up to see the blue eyes of his gypsy.

"Come with me," she said quietly, her eyes darting around the room and her smile beguiling.

To anyone watching, it would have appeared that he was slipping away to a whore's quarters. She instead led him through a dark passage and out into an alley. The warm desert air was fresh after the smoky brothel. His mouth dropped open in surprise at the sight of a saddled mare tethered nearby, loaded with supplies. He looked at her, questioning.

"I am going to miss you, Sherlock," she said, her voice heavy with the accent of the East. She slipped a soft hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to her, her lips gentler than in their other meetings. Out of habit, his hands slid around her bare waist, just brushing the silks of her thin skirt. She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. "You know, I think still you are a liar."

"About what?"

"I am not believing that you have no sweet lady waiting for you in the north," she said with a smile.

"I can assure you, there is no one."

She hummed her disbelief and slid her hand over his heart.

"Perhaps she has not found her way to you yet," she said with a knowing look. "Your eyes do not get lost on the horizon searching for no one."

His body stilled at her words and he felt, not for the first time, that she truly might be able to read men's souls with the way she always spoke of life. It was what kept him from sharing more than a bed with her. She knew too much without his ever having to tell her and that put his guard up despite her enticing demeanor.

Whatever his reservations, he would never forget what she had done for him and would always be thankful.

It was a long, lonely journey back to Huntingdon. Months wondering if he would ever see the soil of his home again, to look upon the faces of the people he cared for.

When at last he found his weary feet traveling down the main road into town, he could hardly believe his own eyes. It looked the same…but also so different.

Children ran in the streets, laughing, and merchants hocked their wares. Women gossiped on the corner and old men talked about the weather and comparing the year's crops to all the others that had come before.

And yet there was a cloud of melancholy over it all; a subdued air that had not been present before. He noticed the way the women looked over their shoulders, the hunched, protective stance of the men. Then his eyes fell upon the crumbling buildings and shuttered shops. Not a single person looked at him and he was hardly surprised; he doubted he would recognize himself were he to peer into a looking glass. It gave him leave to observe what had happened to his town, to his county, in his absence and it made him livid. He turned away from it all with a snarl and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, walking quickly towards the road.

* * *

Steam curled up from the heavy kettle that hung over the fire and Molly wrapped a cloth around her hand to retrieve it, setting it gently on the kitchen table. Two sets of wide brown eyes watched her from the straw mat laden with wool blankets. She smiled at the young boys to try to set their minds at ease. Measuring two handfuls of dried willow bark, she placed the chips in a wooden bowl and carefully poured the steaming water over them. The liquid instantly began to turn a ruby red and the scent slowly permeated the room. While the water cooled and steeped, she gathered her things and placed them in her pouch.

When she was done, she picked up the bowl, the wood warm to the touch, and carried it to the young woman who was huddled in a chair, her husband at her side and holding her shoulders. The woman looked up at her, her eyebrows pulled together in pain.

"Drink this, Eleanor," Molly instructed her kindly. "Three times a day, just like I showed you, until the pain has gone."

The woman nodded and raised the bowl to her lips.

Molly smiled and bid the little family goodbye, pulling her cloak securely around her and raising the hood before stepping outside. The days were growing warmer as summer approached, but evenings still raised the hair on her arms with cold. The walk to the road from the tiny cottage was short and she quickly adjusted the hood of her cloak, making sure it was lowered to hide her face from view.

Eleanor Whittle was one of dozens of patients she tended to in secret in the year since her father died. The headaches she suffered from were crippling and painful, but her case was one of the few Molly felt optimistic about. Willow tea would help and she knew the woman would listen to her instructions. She had left the majority of her supply at the cottage and it would be important to replenish it soon. Not on her way home, of course, not when she'd already traipsed about on foot for the better part of the afternoon. Anything other than a hint of road dust on her hem would arouse suspicion and her gown was already showing signs of her activity.

She hated sneaking about, but there was nothing to be done about it.

Concerned about her herb supplies and stewing for the hundredth time about her limited freedoms, she rounded a bend in the road with her eyes fixed on the ground and the rest of her vision blocked by her cloak and ran straight into the chest of a tall gentleman. He let out a soft grunt at the impact and she yelped in surprise.

Molly looked up, heart racing, expecting to defend her presence outside of the castle, when her gaze met a set of eyes she would have known anywhere in the world. Were it not for the blue-green of those eyes, she never would have known him under the scraggly hair, the beard, and the mismatched linens and wool cloak wrapped tightly around him.

"Sherlock," she breathed, stunned into stillness.

He blinked at her before recognition dawned in his features.

"Molly?"

"Good Lord, it's really you!" she nearly shouted, catching herself at the last second before she threw her arms around him and fully embarrassed herself.

She had no time to contemplate any further words of welcome as she heard the sound of hoof beats in the distance. Casting a worried glance down the lane, she took hold of his arm and pulled him from the road and into the shadows of the woods.

"Molly, what -"

"Shh," she shushed him, sinking further back into the brush when a group of riders went by, all wearing the colors of Moriarty. When they had gone, she looked over at the man she hardly recognized. "I musn't be caught on the road."

"You've walked this road a hundred times," he said, giving her a quizzical look.

"That was before…"

"Before?"

"Before James Moriarty took me as his ward," she said flatly, trying to keep the hatred out of her voice. Sherlock stared at her, his entire face tensed.

"He what?"

"When did you return?"

"Only just."

"Then you've no idea, do you?" she asked him, shaking her head slightly. At his lost look, her face dropped in sympathy. "He took over everything."

She saw the flash of anger in his eyes and it frightened her. At the same time it gave her hope. His return could change everything. Sherlock's eyes dropped away from hers and he stared tensely into the distance. After a few moments, he looked around and stood, holding his hand out for her to join him.

"Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Your father's?"

Molly shook her head, finding herself blinking back tears that she had kept under control for so long.

"He's nearly a year in his grave," she said. "The farm is lost."

"The manor -"

"Has a new master," she told him bitterly. "Sheriff Sebastian Moran."

A look of illness suddenly overtook his face and she fought with the urge to reach out to him.

"John," he said, his voice cracking.

"I…I don't know," she said quietly. "We kept him with us for as long as we could. When father…John was very outspoken about the way things are under James. There was a price on his head for a while. He was never caught."

She hated being the one to tell him what had become of his world. It was obvious enough to those who knew him that he had not left England willingly and he certainly never would have tolerated the events that followed.

"I only have a little more time before I will be missed," Molly said. "There is one place we can go to talk more."

She led him through the brush and trees of the quiet forest, knowing the way by heart since she was a child. As they traveled in the cool shadows of the evergreens and oaks, she found herself glancing at him from time to time, more than curious about what he had been through over the previous two years. The county had been stunned to learn that both heirs to Huntingdon had been sent to war, his swift disappearance causing murmurs of suspicion through the land. The rumors were quickly quelled when the full force of Moriarty's control fell over the people. The snake of a man had started his own rumors as well – each word designed to turn the people of Huntingdon against their former Lord.

Whatever trials Sherlock had been through, she was glad to notice his eyes didn't hold the haunted look she had seen in so many others returning from war. Perhaps a little older, a little more worldly, but there was nothing harrowing in his look.

She kept them in the cover of the undergrowth as they approached the edge of town, skirting along the main road. A three-story building, brown and mossy with age, loomed in the waning light as the first building to greet any travelers coming into town. It was an inn that often housed less worthy folk, those who could not afford the fineries of staying closer to the shops, the social halls, or even the castle itself, removed as it was on a hill overlooking the town.

The mangy shape of the resident guard dog came loping towards her, tail wagging in friendly greeting as it nudged at her hand with its nose. Molly reached into her satchel and offered it a bit of dried beef from her midday meal before patting it on the head.

"Good boy," she whispered, stepping past the happy dog and leading Sherlock to the back door of the inn, knocking softly.

A sliver of wood slid open and an eye peered out quickly before the wood was replaced. The sound of bolts unlatching sounded from inside and in a few moments the door was swung open. A thin man in worn linens stood before them, wiping his hands on an apron tied round his waist. His dark hair hung limply over his forehead and a scraggly beard adorned his jaw.

"Didn't expect you for a few days more, Molly," he said, standing aside to let them in.

"I gave the last of my willow bark to Eleanor," she said, stepping into the warmth of the kitchen. She gestured to Sherlock. "And I knew of no better place to bring him."

The innkeeper looked to Sherlock as he closed the door, eyes searching. The fire crackled and the muted laughter of patrons from the main room filled the silence as it slowly dawned on the man who he was staring at.

"My Lord," he suddenly said, making a small bow. "We had given you up for dead."

"You are Master Anderson, if I'm not mistaken," Sherlock replied.

"Yes, my Lord."

"Mm." Sherlock glanced quickly about the room. "Still watering down your ale?"

Anderson sputtered a bit and blushed.

"Not if I can help it. But times are hard, you see," he said, swallowing nervously. He gestured for them to sit at the small table near the hearth and hurried to fetch a tankard and a plate of food to offer. "This is the finest, though."

Molly primly declined the offer of food and drink, citing her need to hurry back to the castle.

"But the willow bark, if you please," she reminded him.

Anderson turned towards the far wall and walked right up to it, reaching for a board and pulling it loose. Behind it lay shallow shelves of herbs, bottles, and bags of remedies. He reached for a bowl of the dark shavings and brought it to Molly to refill her pouch. Sherlock watched her with curiosity and she glanced up as she cinched the cloth tightly, securing its contents.

"I keep my supplies here – herbs and other treatments." At his surprised look, she went on. "Huntingdon has been without a proper physician for some time. I do what I can for the people who live here."

"They accept a woman's help?"

"It's either my help or none at all. The few who were too proud are now proud in their graves."

He looked taken aback by her harsh words, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. When Anderson settled at the table with them, his focus seemed to shift.

"You seem inclined to keep my presence here quiet," he stated. "Have I joined John in the ranks of those with valuable heads?"

Molly glanced at Anderson, waiting, hoping, to see if he would be the one to share what life was like amongst the masses; the reason Sherlock, disguised as he was, was not entirely safe. Anderson stroked at his beard agitatedly and sighed.

"After you left, Moriarty made it known that the county was impoverished," he said finally. "That you'd squandered the fortunes and taxes in your brother's absence and there was nothing left. So he started taking every coin he could. And when the coins would not satiate…the beatings began. Violence was left unchecked."

"And no one did a thing?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "No one spoke the truth?"

"Lestrade tried," Molly said, looking down at her entwined fingers. "He almost believed the lies, but in the end he knew you would never have authorized that sort of punishment. Probably assumed you had about as much interest in squandering tax collections as you do in appearing at court."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up slightly at her bit of mirth.

"What was his fate?" he asked, once again serious.

"They made an example of him," Anderson said heavily when Molly would not answer. "Not easy to fight back when you're faced with corrupt royal swords. Though how he escaped from the stocks, in the middle of the night, is still a mystery. Put Moriarty in a right fit for a fortnight."

Molly could not hold back the small smirk at the memory of Moriarty outsmarted. It had been hellish in the castle during those days, but entirely worth it. She stood quickly, gathering her things.

"Master Anderson, I had hoped that you would allow his Lordship to stay here until…well, until something can be done," she said, looking at the man ousted from his own home.

"Of course, long as he needs," Anderson said.

"Thank you. I must be going now."

She took a step towards the door and Sherlock suddenly stood, then hesitated. For a moment, he looked lost, his eyes intensely focused on her. Then he stepped towards her, reaching for her hand and bringing it briefly to his lips. They were warm and soft against her skin, the hair of his beard tickling her slightly. She felt a very unladylike shiver dart under her skin as he raised his head and looked at her.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

A nod was all she could manage, slipping her hand slowly from his and heading out the door.

* * *

Sherlock watched the retreating form of Molly as she disappeared into the woods, the hood of her cloak pulled over her long hair and obscuring her face. He could not put a name to the sensation that overtook him as he realized she was leaving – panic, perhaps, if he were being honest. He'd been so cut off from his former life, so deprived, that her leaving him alone had incited a momentary stab of fear. It was not a sensation he was used to.

She had changed, that was certain. Grown up quickly and done what she needed to in order to survive in the challenging two years he had been gone. And he was positive she had done her part to stir up trouble when it was safe – he'd seen the small smile appear on her face at the mention of Lestrade's escape from the stocks. Never before would he have guessed she would assist in the escape of a royal prisoner.

Anderson stepped to his side as they both looked out into the darkening wood.

"My Lord, if I am honest, I cannot say I always spoke well of you in years past," he said gruffly. "But I would trade all my possessions if I could see you put Moriarty back into the mud pit he came from."

Sherlock chuckled. The innkeeper pressed a small brass key into his palm.

"Last room on the top. Back stairs will take you right to it. Help yourself to anything you desire."

With that, he grabbed a tray loaded with bread and cheeses and made his way through a door towards the common room. Sherlock looked at the key, tossing it into the air and catching it again. Glancing out the back one more time, seeing no hint of Molly, he shut the door and bolted it before seeking out the stairs and ascending to his room. It was not much in the way of comforts, but compared to life on the road it seemed the height of luxury. He set to work lighting a warming fire and filled a wash basin with water from the pitcher. Glad to find a set of sheers and a blade amongst the odd things left in the room, he washed and shaved properly for the first time in months. He shed his outer layers and his boots and settled in the chair before the fire, stretching his legs out and placing his fingers beneath his chin.

It was time to find a way to deal with Moriarty.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock woke with a start, the sun shining in brightly from the window of his room. Rubbing his hand over his face, he heard a loud bang from a room down the hall, followed by angry voices. He realized it must have been the ruckus that had roused him. Leaning back into the pillow of his bed, he listened with curiosity to the fight. A woman and a man. He smiled a bit as he heard the words being thrown back and forth – he had promised to leave his wife and she was furious it was taking so long.

"Run while you can," he muttered to the poor woman.

He waited until the excitement had died down before dressing and making his way down to the kitchen, choosing to continue his low profile. Given what he had learned from Molly and Anderson, he was unsure of the loyalty from the people of his county. Finding out how many were swayed by Moriarty's lies would be key in his effort to reclaim his home. If he faced animosity, it would be a difficulty to prove that he and Mycroft were not at fault. Though how the people could be loyal to such a brute was something he had not been able to figure.

People were sheep; that much he understood. If the groundwork was laid to sully his name, the subsequent "justice" enacted by Moriarty could possibly be welcomed.

He pondered what the best move would be as he scoured the buttery for something to eat, breakfasting quickly and finally deciding that a direct approach was best. Bracing himself for the collection of miscreants in the common room, he pulled back his shoulders and pushed through the door of the kitchen. He passed through a small hall that reeked of smoke and ale and stepped into the common room, immediately taking in the smattering of men and women leaning over mugs and plates of food, some holding heads that were no doubt suffering from indulging too much the night before. A few were reclined against the wall and snoring. Overall, the mood was significantly subdued from what he perceived from the last evening.

He quickly found the pair that had graced him with their domestic exchange upstairs. The woman was leaning back in her chair, arms firmly crossed and her gaze fixed icily on the floor. The man was shoveling food into his mouth aggressively, not paying her one moment of his attention. She was not quite young, not quite old, but beautiful and exuding the air of someone who had been handed everything in life. He was older, a gambler, and, just as Sherlock had suspected, nowhere near leaving his wife. The wife kept a good home for her husband. The woman kept his bed warm. What reason did he have to change the situation?

Sherlock scowled.

He swept through the room and brushed past their table, casually reaching out a hand to grab the man's cloak and hat from the back of his chair. Donning them quickly without drawing a single eye from those in the room, he strode out the front door and onto the main road. The items were a vibrant green, not unlike his own from so long ago. The fabric was rich and soft, flowing about him as he walked.

It gave him confidence.

The stares and occasional gasps directed his way as he walked into town did little to distract him. His focus was on confronting Moriarty. Nothing could be done with the townspeople until he was dealt with.

It took a most unexpected sight on a small street to pull his focus. The little crowd of people gathered around a distraught husband and wife drew him down the street, but the overwhelming smell of charred wood and smoke worried him to the core. He recognized the building – the best bakery in the town. All that indicated its original purpose was the corner of a sign swinging by a hinge above the door. Nothing remained inside, every loaf of bread and work surface burned down to ash. He looked up and saw the waning plumes of smoke curling from the windows of the living quarters above the shop. Little damage had been done to the adjoining buildings, though the pails of water rushed to the fire had been far too late for the bakery.

He moved carefully towards the crowd, not wanting to draw attention until he needed to, taking in the sooty, sweaty forms holding limply to buckets and basins.

"I promised I would have it to them. I _promised_ I would pay," the baker was saying to the group at large, his voice shaking with shock and rage. "Just a few more days…why didn't they listen?"

"This county is damned," an onlooker spat out.

A wave of hushes and murmurs spread through the small crowd as the sound of hoof beats approached, metal and leather clanking together from riders and tack. Sherlock felt his face flush in anger when he laid eyes on Moriarty at the helm, Moran close on his heels. The luxury of his clothes, the air of superiority, turned Sherlock's stomach when he thought of how his people had been living.

Time seemed to freeze altogether when he saw the members of court bringing up the rear of the group. He saw Molly, her lilac skirts spilling over her mount and her long hair hidden away under a cream colored wimple and veil. He'd not known how used to seeing her free and nearly wild he was until that moment. He hated Moriarty for doing that to her. Riding next to Molly and clearly acting as lady's maid and chaperone was Martha, looking no more pleased to be part of the group than Molly herself.

His thoughts were interrupted by the baker's wife pleading.

"My Lord," she choked out, falling desperately to her knees in front of Moriarty's stallion. "We would have paid…just a few more days."

Moriarty had the audacity to look shocked, wounded even. He stared down at the woman with an expression of concern, though his dark eyes were stony and impassive.

"My dear woman," he said. "It is indeed a tragic accident. But surely you do not believe this has anything to do with your late payments."

He drew out the last two words with cold precision. More words were exchanged, but Sherlock's eye had drifted to the front window of the building, the wood in one corner deep black from the fire and far more damaged than elsewhere. Stepping discreetly towards the wall, the top of a wooden stick came into view and he reached out for it. Singed and slightly warm to the touch, the stick ended in a bulge of burnt fabric. Sherlock held it in front of his face, peering at the way the fabric was wrapped, the pattern of the singing, the white sheen where it had escaped the licks of the flame…

His head turned back to the crowd when he heard his own name from Moriarty's voice.

"How do we know it was 'im, eh?" one of the onlookers bit out, drawing the warning glances of the crowd. "You always say he's to blame, but 'ow do we know 'e was the one to ruin this county?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Moriarty smirked. He pointed straight at Sherlock and he felt the eyes of a dozen people turn to him with sudden shock and awareness. He froze, assessing the feelings radiating from the crowd. "Left the county in ruin and then ran off to the other side of the world to escape the problems. Couldn't stop the violence. Couldn't save his county. So he abandoned you. And now you get to properly thank him for all that he's done."

Sherlock felt the tension rise in the crowd, the indecision on who to believe growing. He saw the fear in their eyes, the distrust of him that had been planted in his absence.

He glanced at the remains of the silken fabric one more time and sniffed it, recoiling at the scent of lamp oil.

"Blame," Sherlock said loudly. "That is a fine topic, isn't it? For example, it would be easy to blame this inferno on bad luck…this torch says otherwise."

"Oh how I have missed your whims of imagination, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said with a smile, earning matching grins from his guard.

"This is fabric from the castle, no one in this town could possibly possess such a thing! Wrapped around to form a torch – a deliberate act by your forces!"

The look on Moriarty's face darkened, his carefully controlled detachment dropping for several moments. In that instant, Sherlock knew he was no longer going to be treated as a mere nuisance to Moriarty, a problem to be scuttled off to a far off land and forgotten. There was murder in his eyes and Sherlock felt his pulse quicken.

"That is a dangerous accusation, Sherlock," Moriarty said, his voice deepening. "One you should think twice about unless you wish to go against God and country."

"Oh I think you know how little regard I have for either of those."

Damn his mouth. Mycroft had always warned him it would be his own undoing.

If he had any doubt as to his mistake, the sharp inhales and mutterings of the people around him confirmed he had indeed made a grievous error.

"A traitor and a blasphemer," Moriarty said, nodding to the guards around him who began to dismount. "A shame the desert did not take you."

Sherlock's focus narrowed as each man hit the ground – five in all – and metal scraped against leather as swords were drawn. They were trained and dangerous, but for all their perilousness they were encumbered by chain mail and armor, sluggish in their movements. When the first heavy sword cut through the air towards him, he easily ducked away and had enough time to raise the torch to knock away the next cut from another guard. Before the man had a chance to lift the sword again, Sherlock swung the torch towards his helmet and sent a flurry of ash into his eyes. In a flash, the sword was dropped as the guard shouted in pain and Sherlock had it in his hands before the other guards could move. They took it in turns to bring blows to his blade until his arms ached and the crowd had become deadly silent.

With a great shout, Sherlock knocked the blade from one of the guard's hands and it clattered to the ground. His own hands shook and his sword dropped as well. He stumbled back, panting and spent, watching the last three guards close in on him.

"Stop."

Moriarty's sharp command came out of nowhere. Looking up and blinking through the sweat that had gathered on his eyelids, Sherlock saw him looking down from his horse with great interest. He gave a lethargic wave of his hand towards the guards.

"Let him go," Moriarty said, gathering his reins and turning his horse. "To kill him would only be a kindness. Let him rot in his mistakes."

One by one, the people surrounding him turned their backs and slowly faded back to their lives, scared or disgusted or apathetic. With a few last deep breaths, he looked at the retreating riders. Molly alone delayed, doing her best to appear to be struggling with her chestnut mare. She stared hard at him, her mouth set and her expression nearly unreadable.

Moments passed and he awaited her judgment; waited to find out if there was one person left who did not see him as the ruined life he had been painted as.

Her face suddenly dropped in sympathy and she mouth one word to him: 'Run.'

* * *

The woods had always been a comfort to Sherlock and it only seemed the right place to go. He followed the stream away from Huntingdon and tried to get lost in the way the water moved as he walked along. The morning had given him more answers than he was prepared for, more clean-cut than he had expected. He had rather underestimated the control Moriarty had over the people of his county and the brute force he had on his side.

It was quite devastating.

And embarrassing.

If he'd made more of an effort to connect with his county before, then perhaps…but it was pointless to wonder. They'd lost their faith in him. Or if they hadn't, they were too terrified of the consequences to show it outright.

He huffed to himself as his thoughts circled back to the beginning again, bending down to pick up a rock before chucking it irritably into the water with a loud splash, water spitting over the banks.

In the next instant, the crack of something hard across his shoulders knocked the wind out of him, sending him sprawling to the ground, his cap flying from his head. His already taxed muscles seized at the blow and he writhed in pain and gasped for breath. Sherlock rolled to his side in the damp grass and forced his eyes open to take in his assailant. A short, boorish looking man stood above him, long hair and beard giving him a wild look and the rough wool and skins that made up his dress only added to the affect.

"Up, coward!" the man bellowed, leaning on a staff that was no doubt the cause of Sherlock's aching shoulders.

He groaned and struggled to his feet, damned if he would let some ruffian be the death of him after his time in the desert. He reached for his sword before remembering he no longer owned one and grimaced at the way the man laughed at him.

"Poor sod," the man shook his head. "Guess it'll have to be all hands, then."

The man tossed his staff to the side and crossed his arms, waiting for Sherlock to steady himself. Sherlock shook his head, bringing focus back to his vision and warily lifting his fists. He blinked as the man took a fighting stance, a smirk on his face and his blue eyes twinkling.

"John!" Sherlock cried, looking stunned to pieces.

The blue eyes lost their mirth and widened, his head cocking to the side in confusion. It took several moments and Sherlock was certain it was mostly disbelief working against him, but John finally looked on him with recognition.

"Sherlock?" he said, his hands dropping to his side. "You have not perished…"

"Nor have you, to my great relief," Sherlock replied with a smile that only began to show the happiness he felt at finding his friend alive and well. "Though slightly less refined looking than when I last saw you."

John laughed outright and rushed forward, throwing his arms around Sherlock and completely heedless of the gasp of pain he emitted. For such a small man, he was surprisingly strong.

"John, while I am happy for the greeting, I am suffering from two lashings so far today," Sherlock said, his voice slightly strangled.

With a final pat on the back, John released him and stepped back, his look of delight overshadowed with concern.

"Two?" he asked. "Given that I supplied one, I have a fairly good idea of who supplied the first."

"Moriarty's guards can hardly be called inept," Sherlock said, looking at John with more than a bit of admiration. "You've done well avoiding them, it would seem."

"This part of the wood is beyond their interest," John told him. "And we do a great deal to keep the curious away."

"We?"

John smiled at him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, mindful of his pain this time.

"Come with me, my friend," he said.

It was a remote part of the forest that Sherlock was led to, answering John's questions all the way about what had happened to him, and he was slightly disconcerted to learn that the area had escaped his notice. Beyond a sharp hill with jagged rocks, ferns, and oaks, dropped into a small valley protected by the raised earth on three sides and a wide creek and thick mess of brambles on the last, was a camp. Half a dozen sturdy tents dotted the area with fires burning bright along the way, tended by men dressed similarly to John. One or two women were present, hanging wash on lines stretched between trees.

"These are the outcasts of Huntingdon," John said, gesturing to the camp as they staggered down the hillside. "Not much, but a sight better than how we lived before."

"John," Sherlock said, stopping their trek as they reached the edge of the camp. His friend turned and looked at him expectantly. His eyes flickered around the camp for a moment before coming to rest on John. "I am sorry for what happened. If there was something I could have done…"

John raised his hand.

"You were no more able to do anything than anybody else," he said with a mollifying smile.

That was the end of it, though Sherlock felt he did not deserve the forgiveness so quickly and wholly. He'd placed John in his home, thinking it had been the best thing for him, and it had placed him directly in harm's way.

He followed as the man made his way through the camp to a tent on the far side by the creek, a roaring fire and two figures tending to a pot boiling with a delicious smelling stew. Sherlock spared a small look to the young man tossing bits of potato in the pot before turning his attention to the man of the cloth stirring. He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in astonished amusement.

"Lestrade?"

The man started, sloshing soup onto the fire which sputtered and hissed. He looked up and mirrored the look of shock, wiping his hands furiously on his brown robes. John chuckled as he ambled towards the fire, hands in his pockets.

"Never fear, Sherlock, he hasn't taken the cloth," he said. "All for show."

"Let's me come an' go as I please, doesn't it?" Lestrade said, shooting a look at John. "You're just in a fit you didn't think of it first."

"I'll stick to the woods, thank you," John said with a smile, taking a seat on the log by the fire.

Lestrade pulled a face and stepped towards Sherlock, extending his hand. It was taken heartily, his spirits lifting at seeing friendly faces after his disastrous exodus from town. Before long, the entire camp was gathered around to find out what had become of their former Lord. Very unexpectedly, he found himself losing that title and quickly becoming one of them. They were certainly enraptured by his adventures and showed more support for his side of things than anyone in Huntingdon had done.

"And what do you plan to do?" asked the young lad called Will seated next to John. "Half the people in the county will be heading for the jail or the woods in a fortnight with the way James has been dipping into purses."

Sherlock's gaze drifted around the gathered group, taking in the hopeful stares and tired eyes. His eyes landed on John's. The shake of his head and resigned frown were almost imperceptible. Sherlock understood.

"If you're looking for miracles, I'm certainly the wrong person to turn to," Sherlock said, looking into the fire. "You'd best return your attentions to your own lives."

The disappointment was palpable, but he could not waste time on their reactions. He waited until they had dispersed back to their own little camps before turning to look at John, Lestrade, and Will. John leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at Sherlock.

"No plan then?" he asked.

"Oh no, I've got a plan," Sherlock replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the distance. "At least, I'm fairly certain I do. But putting their hopes in me would just lead to disillusionment."

"What's the plan?" Lestrade asked.

"Give the people back what is theirs," he said firmly, standing and removing his cloak and cap. "I'll need a dress and veil."

"A what?" John cried, looking aghast.

"A dress and veil," Sherlock repeated, clasping his hands together and looking at Will. "One of your old sets will do, I think. You can't have started dressing as a boy that long ago."

Will's mouth dropped open like a fish, hands clutching subconsciously at the shirt neck. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably and John looked ready to land another blow with his staff. It was one of those moments Sherlock realized too late that he had said the wrong thing.

"Well surely you both knew," he said, looking between the two men.

"Of course we did, but we don't go around chatting about it," John said in a barely hushed voice. "She's hidden it very successfully."

Sliding his eyes over to her, Sherlock saw the panic and guardedness in her face. He walked over and looked down into her bright blue eyes.

"What's your real name?" he asked.

"Mary," she said quietly, her voice dropping the bravado from earlier and sounding softer.

"Mary," he said, giving her a small smile. "Family trouble?"

She nodded, running a nervous hand through her short blonde hair.

"Not to worry," he reassured her. "I know a bit about that myself. Now, take your time with those dresses. I won't need them til tomorrow."

* * *

It had been two years since Sherlock had properly enjoyed the company of a friend and a good tankard of ale and the evening brought both for him. A few people at another fire had brought out a pipe, fiddle, and drums and the camp was almost raucous with laughter and jovial shouting. Sherlock watched them all, sipping at his ale as he leaned against the log on the ground, John by his side. John smiled and laughed as he watched Lestrade spin around clumsily in a circle with a young lady.

The air smelled of earth and pine sap and smoke, with the lingering scent of supper. It was quite comfortable and enjoyable.

"Quite a world you have out here," Sherlock chuckled, taking another drink.

"Almost enough to make you not want to go back," John said, reaching for a long stick and stoking the fire before settling back against the log. Sherlock looked over at him.

"If you don't wish to be involved, you can say so," he told him.

"Not what I meant," John said. He considered for a moment. "Though for tomorrow's plan, I may decline again."

Sherlock laughed.

"Just as well, you're far to bearded for it anyway," he said, smiling.

Lifting a hand up to his face, John made a show of stroking his beard.

"Keeps me warm," he said.

"You look ridiculous."

"I do not."

"I have it on high authority that ladies are not fond of woolen faces," Sherlock said, unable to resist the dig.

"Whose authority?" John asked, taken another sip of his ale.

Sherlock watched his eyes dart towards Mary. He smiled, pleased that his intuition was correct.

"Never mind whose," he said, leaning his head back to look up at the stars. John laughed.

"Very pleased you're back, Sherlock," he said sincerely. "Very pleased."

"As am I, John."

* * *

Even with the long cloak and letting out the hem of Mary's skirts, Sherlock's stature was still too tall not to look absurd in the disguise. He tugged the skirt down for the tenth time as he rode up to the castle at midday. Fortunately, the bustle of the day was enough that no one bothered to look at him twice. He reined his horse over to a post and nearly upset the basket of apples he had carried in while he dismounted. Keeping his gaze demurely down, he offered the fruit to anyone who came close enough on his way to a servant's entrance. He was briskly turned down each time and felt rather pleased that he had slipped anyone's notice by the time he popped through the door. The hall was empty and he dumped the basket immediately, making his way quickly through the hall and towards the steward's chambers.

He stopped short when he saw the guard standing at the door. On the smaller side and his nose red from overindulgence in wine and ale. Thinking quickly, he shed the cloak and pulled the veil across his face, walking confidently up to the door. The guard looked at him.

"I'm here to do the dusting," Sherlock said, softening his voice and taking care to look up from below his lashes.

Giving a crooked smile, the guard stepped aside and let him right through. For good measure, Sherlock batted his eyelashes while he shut the heavy door, earning another idiotic smile. His demeanor dropped the moment the door was shut, wondering not for the first time how men could act so pathetic when it came to feminine wiles.

The room was little changed from the last time he had been in it, although more items of value had made their way onto tables and shelves. He found the coin box quickly enough, picking the lock and flinging the lid back to reveal gold and jewels. More than enough to settle the accounts of many people in the county, but he knew he must exercise caution, taking only what would not be missed right away. Reaching below the skirts for the pouch he had brought, he swiftly filled it and retied it to his belt.

Upon turning to leave the room, his eyes landed on the polished wood of his bow leaning against the wall amongst the clutter of other items, a quiver of arrows propped next to it. He weighed the risks.

It would be noticeable.

It would absolutely give him away.

He grabbed them as he left the room, bursting through the door without looking back.

"All done wif the dusting then?" the guard called out.

"Oh yes, quite done," Sherlock replied cheerily, glancing over his shoulder at the oblivious guard before rounding the corner.

He had not gone two steps out of sight when he heard a loud sound of indignation.

"'Ere now, wait a minute you!"

It was difficult to run in skirts. He had not particularly anticipated that specific obstacle, but he did his best to dash full speed down the corridor and towards the stairs, the footfalls of the guard hard on his heels. The man was calling for assistance and Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, making a hard right on the landing in an effort to lose them and find a place to hide. Spotting a door just a few paces away, he bolted for it, grabbing the iron handle and throwing it open, slipping into the room. He winced when the door slammed shut with an echo in the hall. Pressing his ear against the wood, he strained to hear if they had managed to follow his path when a startled little cry behind him turned his head.

_Oh for the love of…_

Molly stood there, pleasantly exposed in her chemise and stockings. The surprise of his sudden appearance left an enticing blush across her cheeks and breast, far more easily seen than it would have been had she been wearing a gown. For a moment, he wondered why she did not cover herself.

"Are you a new lady's maid?" she asked, taking a step forward. "Martha did not mention that…"

At that moment, he remembered his disguise and also realized that she saw right through it – the bow and arrows surely didn't aid him - as she stared into his eyes and hers widened. She launched herself towards her bed and scrambled for her dressing gown, turning her back as she threw it around herself.

"Sherlock!" she hissed angrily. "What in Heaven's name are you doing here?"

"It's better if you don't know," he told her, patting absently at the pouch of jewels and coins hidden below his skirts.

"Something that could get you hanged, I take it," she said, her voice still shaken while she looked over her shoulder and tried with trembling hands to secure the ties of her gown. She caught his eye and glared at him. "Turn around!"

He smirked and turned around to face the wall.

"It's nothing I haven't seen years ago," he said, amused.

"I was a _child_ then," she snapped back. "In the name of modesty, keep your back turned."

He laughed to himself and studied the seams between the stones of the wall.

"Is it safe yet?" he asked lightly.

"Fine, yes, you can turn around now."

She was gripping the neckline of her dressing gown to her throat, but it did little to erase the image of her flushed skin. He found himself wishing he were not wearing such a ridiculous disguise in front of her. It made him feel decidedly foolish as he approached her.

"Not that I think you would, but it might be best for you not to mention my little visit," he told her with a slight purse of his lips. "Might arouse suspicion."

Molly nodded, pulling her gown tighter. Sherlock leaned in and saw her sharp intake of breath.

"How often do you spend afternoons in your underthings, Molly Hooper?" he asked teasingly.

Her mouth dropped open into an indignant little 'o' and she shoved at his chest.

"Out, Sherlock!"

"There might still be guards out there," he argued, trying half-heartedly to deflect her swats. "It's likely not safe!"

"Fair amount safer than it is in here – out!" she repeated, reaching for the door handle and giving him another shove through the doorway.

"It was a simple curiosity - "

"And completely indecent!"

"You did it when you were eight all the time - "

The heavy door slammed in his face, but not before he saw the incensed look on her face.

And the hint of a smile.


	5. Chapter 5

**Wow I finally updated! My creative energy has been focused elsewhere for a while and the result was total writer's block. Hopefully it was worth the wait!**

* * *

Molly leaned against the door to her room and bit her lip, trying not to smile.

He hadn't left Huntingdon after all.

After seeing him nearly beaten to the ground in town, losing any support he may have had from the townspeople, she was afraid she would never see him again. The faint confidence that his return would change everything had faded faster than a dying flame. It had all looked so hopeless, but something had happened to keep him from giving up. Though why he showed up at the castle in women's garments with a bow and arrows slung across his shoulder was beyond her.

Her hands dropped away from her dressing gown and the fabric slipped open again. The sight of him in such an outfit should have left her in hysterics, at least, once she recovered from her initial shock. She'd been properly embarrassed to be caught in such a state of undress, but the afternoon was warm and she'd been expecting no visitors, least of all him. Her upbringing and the rules of polite society told her she should be more upset.

But his disguise had done very little to hide the appeal of his eyes or the crooked little smile he gave her, freezing her to the spot when he stepped closer. She really should have thrown him out immediately. She'd looked on him with the youthful eyes of a girl awed by his intelligence and striking looks for many years; but now, she felt the stirrings of something new when he was in her presence. Something similar to the things the ladies in residence whispered about a particularly dashing knight or courtier. She had felt it when he took her hand at the inn and thanked her so sincerely. And just now, she blushed pink thinking of him in her chambers.

Perhaps she should've let him stay a little longer, just until he was certainly out of danger of being found out. He would have tried harder to stay hidden if he really believed he could be caught, but she worried her bottom lip thinking she might've thrown him to the wolves.

She walked quickly across the room to the window, the smooth stone under her feet suddenly feeling much cooler as the rest of her body remained flushed. Pushing the plated glass open further, she leaned out over the sill and strained to see the path to the main gate. Sure enough, within moments, she saw his still-disguised figure on horseback, galloping out of the castle grounds. She smiled when she observed the small cluster of palace guards emerge well after Sherlock had flown from the castle, looking confused and furious with each other that anything was amiss under their watch.

She laughed, but quickly stifled her humor when she heard a knock on her chamber door.

"Miss Margaretta."

Martha's cheerful voice floated into the room as she tentatively opened the door, carrying a tray filled with sweet cakes and spiced wine. It was an afternoon ritual for them, enjoying the time away from prying eyes and Moriarty's untrustworthy servants and attendants. Molly moved away from the window and towards the small, round table placed near the hearth and began removing the books she had been pouring over to make way for the tray.

"I saw someone leaving your chambers just now," Martha said, a smile on her face. "If I had known you were entertaining a visitor I would have waited."

"Oh," Molly exclaimed, pulling the books to her chest and digging her fingernails into the soft leather of the binding. "It was nothing…just a new maid, she was lost, you see, got turned around - "

"Calm you heart, dear," Martha said gently with a surprisingly youthful giggle. She set the wine out for them and motioned for Molly to sit, which she did. "It's alright. I know Sherlock Holmes when I see him. I've mended his breeches and wiped tears from his eyes more times than he would admit to anybody, I'm the last person that disguise would fool."

Molly's mouth dropped open in mild surprise, but her shoulders relaxed as she realized she would not have to keep his activities secret.

"He didn't know it was my chamber," she blurted out, feeling the need to explain the circumstances further. "It was an accident that he…found his way here. He left nearly right away."

"Oh, my dear lamb, you are in no danger of appearing any less of a lady in my eyes simply because that man stumbled into your chambers," Martha assured her, cutting into a honey cake and setting the slices on plates to serve. "But I must say, if people weren't so talented at 'finding their way' into the right chambers, the midwives would have far less to do."

Molly's eyes widened and she looked down firmly at the plate in front of her, her face burning with embarrassment and amusement. Abandoning the books to the floor beside her, she reached for the spiced wine and lifted the chalice to her lips, thankful for the calming drink.

"That reminds me," Martha went on, seemingly ignorant of the state she had put Molly in, "Alice Green believes her baby may be arriving any day now. You might consider a visit to help the midwife."

* * *

Sherlock slowed his horse when he had put plenty of distance between himself and the castle, confident that no one was following. He smiled smugly as he hooked the strap of the quiver holding arrows and bow over the pommel of the saddle, freeing his hands to rip off the veil and wimple and pull the borrowed dress over his head. Stuffing the items into a saddle bag, he silently celebrated how easy it had been to slip behind the guarded walls, to completely outsmart the fools Moriarty had placed in his employ. The victory could not be allowed to make him overly confident, however. Sherlock would be assumed to be well on his way to the next shire at the moment, but he could not rely on that cover for much longer if he continued on with these…intrusions. He refused to label them as robberies, seeing as none of the fortune belonged to Moriarty in the first place.

It would be attributed to some anonymous thief this time around, but experience told him the cloak of mystery would only work for so long in his favor. Still, it would be quite exciting to see how far he could push his luck…

After slinging the quiver and bow over his shoulder, he pulled at the linen shirt that clung to his skin, previously confined by the dress, allowing air to pass between the fabric and his body, cooling him down. How the ladies spent all day constricted by such outfits was something he would never understand.

Though it seemed Molly had found a suitable solution.

The thought brought another smile to his face. She was a continual surprise to him these past few days. If he had thought it safe, if it wouldn't undoubtedly bring the wrath of Moriarty down upon him and everyone around him, he would have taken her from the castle and their little group could have flown from Huntingdon. But at the moment, she was a well pampered captive, a person Moriarty intended to keep, but care for. That was a balance Sherlock would not upset if it meant turning Moriarty's anger on her.

And he wouldn't abandon his county. Not again.

There was clearly a limit to his apathy for governance; a certain protectiveness welled up in him when he thought of leaving his home to the rule of that criminal. Blind loyalty to his country he may not have possessed, but a selfish sense of ownership and justice he could easily admit to. Not to mention Molly would have held him accountable for the fate of every soul left behind; his own personal conscience, it seemed, filling in the cracks of failing integrity within him. At the moment, she was doing more for Huntingdon than he was and with more stealth. She was saving lives and he was pilfering coins.

Suddenly his little burglary did not feel like such a victory.

Well who was she to compete for moral high ground, anyway? The people could not very well benefit from her doctoring if they were sent to prison for late payments. Really, he was keeping her patients from a worse fate. Obviously she would approve.

He let the mental argument go as his horse approached the encampment, smelling the smoke of fires and hearing the voices chattering. He was quickly approached by the small group privy to his plans as he led the horse to the makeshift paddock at the side of the camp.

"Very simple this time," he said, not bothering to wait for the questions. "I doubt it will remain so."

"You've succeeded?" John asked.

"You needn't sound so surprised," Sherlock said, loosening the girth on the saddle and sliding it off while Mary took care of the bridle and ushered the horse into the pen. Sherlock caught her eye. "I'm afraid your gown has been stretched beyond use."

She shrugged and shouldered the bridle.

"Never much cared for it to begin with," she told him with a smile.

Placing the saddle onto the fence, he turned and strode towards the main part of the camp, leading the others. He scanned the members of the camp quickly before his eyes locked on a young boy of about fourteen tossing sticks into a campfire.

"You lad," he called out. The boy's head snapped up and he jumped to attention when he saw who was addressing him. "You are quite capable of slipping into town unnoticed, are you not?"

"Very, sir," the boy said.

"Hm. And would you like to pay a few of the townspeople back for the sweets and trinkets you've pocketed over the last few years?"

The boy faltered briefly before straightening and seeming to understand that he was being given a second chance. He nodded vigorously.

"Good. What's your name?"

"Bill, sir."

"Well, Lestrade, consider Bill to be your first reformed thief from the band you so ineffectively chased around in days gone by," Sherlock said with a smirk.

Lestrade huffed in annoyance, but said nothing. Sherlock unhooked the pouch of coins from his belt, pocketed some of them, and tossed the remainder in the pouch to Bill.

"Make sure those are placed into the hands of those who need it most," he instructed. "The rest will be distributed amongst the camp."

Quickly forgiving the slight against him, Lestrade nodded in approval and wandered off with Bill to ensure the delivery of the money. John and Mary escorted Sherlock back to their campfire where a few slices of bacon were frying and another stew stuffed with root vegetables was waiting. Sherlock's interest in the food was half-hearted as he thought about how he could possibly continue to outsmart Moriarty and his men. He felt a sting of aggravation when he glanced up to see his companions barely focused on the food themselves, but for a completely different reason. If they intended to keep Mary's identity a secret for much longer in the camp, they truly needed to refrain from sitting so close. And stop gazing at each other. Good Heavens, was it so difficult to behave normally merely because they had starry eyes for each other? He managed just fine with Molly.

Not that they were starry eyed for one another.

"Practically a sister," he muttered, slouching down further against the log he was propped against.

"Who's a sister?" John asked, overhearing despite his current distraction.

"No one," Sherlock said moodily. "Thinking."

He was left alone with his thoughts, retreating so deeply into his mind that time was lost. He was finally startled out of his meditation by the sound of excited voices and he glanced up to see Lestrade and Bill returned to camp, excitedly relaying news to John and Mary.

"Sherlock, did you hear?" John asked, looking at him with anticipation.

"Hm?"

"You have more allies than you might think," Lestrade told him. "Many in town suspected you were behind the generous 'gifts.' They're ready to take up arms with you, the lot of 'em."

"And there's more'n that, sir," Bill hurried to speak, brimming with energy. "The castle thinks you're well gone. They're holding a feast in three days' time to celebrate their victory."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth slowly turned up and he stared into the flames of the fire.

"John," he said confidently. "Do not shave your beard just yet. We are going to need the disguise."

* * *

On the evening of the feast, Sherlock felt waves of excitement flow through him that he had not felt in a very long time. Great work had gone into finding the right clothing and planning every detail until Sherlock was met with tired stares when he tried to seek more counsel on the subject. John was a willing participant, though he took some convincing when it came to giving up his woodsman clothing for one night. Sherlock ascertained that he relied on the furs and wool as part of his cover, the items having kept him safe from the bounty on his head for many successful months. He stood uncomfortably in the minstrel outfit, looking quite doubtful, until Mary spoke up.

"I think it's very nice," she said quietly, hands in her trouser pockets and shuffling her feet.

"Really?" John said, his chest lifting slightly. Mary nodded and looked at the ground.

"Very," she repeated.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shoved the tabor he had borrowed from one the men in camp at John. He found himself quite glad he had decided to make Mary his assistant for the night; he was better off going by himself rather than put the two of them together on this undertaking.

"Yes, yes, you look lovely," he said dryly, securing his green cloak around his shoulders and donning a matching woodsman's hat, perfecting the look of a hunter. John stared down at the tabor with an uncertain expression.

"I'm no musician, Sherlock," he said. "Are you sure this is the best charade?"

"No one will give you a second look, especially if it appears you've been into the wine," Sherlock assured him. "That's the beauty of servants in a household like Moriarty's…they are only part of the scenery."

With their roles solidified, the trio made their way in twilight to the castle, parting ways once they had slipped in the main gate amongst the wagons and horses carrying gilded party guests and their servants and attendants. Sherlock knew many were there under duress, looking to appease the usurper, while others were ardent supporters.

He nodded to John as his friend followed a small group of servants, knowing he would fulfill his role well, keeping watch on the east side of the great hall and ready to sound the alarm if it looked as though Sherlock had been discovered. He was relying on the majority of the guards to be placed along the hall, too busy watching the revelry to be concerned with the dark corridors, even considering the recent burglary. He led Mary around to the servant's entrance of the kitchen, giving her a reassuring smile when he rapped on the door. Candlelight spilled out into the darkening evening when the door flew open, a harried looking woman glaring at him while she wiped her flour covered hands on her apron.

"What d'you want?" she demanded, looking irritated at having been interrupted on such an important night.

"Delivering the pheasants," Sherlock said, sounding bored and gesturing to Mary as she held up the brown sack bulging with five fat birds. He kept his face tilted down and his expression hard, knowing that a simple change like that was often all that was needed to fool anyone. Attitude could be everything when it came to disguises.

The woman looked between the two of them and narrowed her eyes.

"Already got birds," she said testily. "No one told me about any more."

Sherlock sighed with impatience and deliberately pulled his gloves off while he spoke.

"Sheriff Moran told me to deliver pheasants at the request of Sir James," he said, trying not to say the name with a sneer. "It is not my fault your workers are too stupid to keep you informed of the goings on of this household."

"I run this staff better'n anyone, I can promise you that," the woman snapped at him, placing her hands on her ample hips. "And the fact is, I don't have time to pluck more birds - "

"I'll do it, ma'am."

A strong female voice came from inside the kitchen, interrupting the cook's tirade. The woman ground her teeth, considering, before finally stepping aside and flinging a hand in the air.

"Come in, then," she said, bustling out of the room before Sherlock and Mary had stepped fully inside. It was little more than an antechamber, a preparation room connected to the main kitchen where more servants could be heard.

He was able to lay eyes on the source of the voice – a young woman with an olive complexion and piercing dark eyes, her curling hair pinned back under a kerchief. She was covered to the elbows in flour and other remnants of cooking and looked entirely familiar. Someone left over from Mycroft's servants that he had seen before…

"Sally," she told him. He froze and internally planned the best escape, unsure of her loyalties or if she recognized him at all. "We only met once or twice before, sir, I don't expect you to remember me. S'alright. I won't say a word."

Sherlock heard Mary let out a breath behind him.

"You've stayed," Sherlock stated.

"Would have been hard for me to find a position like this anywhere else," she told him, continuing to roll out dough for meat pies. "Your brother always treated me very well. I did what I could to secure my place here. But don't worry – I care very little for the new master."

For a few moments, the only sound in the kitchen was the thump of Sally's fists against the dough while Sherlock stared at her, surprised by her bluntness. She looked up at him and gave him an amused smile.

"Well go on," she said. "Off with you! I can't wait to hear what you take this time."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, but held out his hand for Mary to hand over the sack of birds. He walked over to the table and dumped them out while keeping his eyes on Sally.

"Does the castle suspect - "

"Oh lord no, those guards were absolute idiots, couldn't tell a pig from a sheep," she said quickly. "But there are those of us who just knew. It was an absolute delight to see his '_lordship_' so confused and upset. Far more entertaining than the usual amusements."

"The usual?..."

"When he's particularly unpleasant," Sally said, looking down at the dough with a grin as she took a rolling pin to it, "I spit in his food."

Mary snorted beside him and clamped a hand to her mouth to repress her laughter. He gave her a humoring smile and told her to stay put, grabbing the cloth sack and leaving her to Sally's offers of wine and clean food.

Pulling his hat down and taking on a rougher posture and gait, Sherlock made his way into the corridors of the castle, skimming the edges of the passageways and staying in shadow as much as possible. Not a single head turned in his direction and he managed to avoid the mess of guests in the great hall just starting to feel the effects of the drink and festive atmosphere, their voices growing louder and laughter filtering out into the rest of the castle. At a less populated archway, he slipped closer to the merriment and peered into the crowd, recognizing many faces from his forced days at court. He could see Moriarty and Moran seated at the raised table on one side of the hall, enjoying a gluttony of food and looking down on the feast with smug, triumphant faces. His gaze drifted over the room, looking for a petite form that he only half-pretended he was not interested in seeing, but unable to find.

When he reached the east side of the corridors, he spotted John leaning against a stone wall, his tabor abandoned on the floor and his hand grasping what was sure to be an empty chalice, his other laced around the waist of a servant girl. She looked all too pleased with the attentions and did not notice John's quick glance and nod towards Sherlock as he passed by.

As he expected, there were now two guards standing outside of the steward's chambers, both looking far more competent than the last one. He sauntered up to them, pulling a parchment from inside his tunic.

"I have come to collect payment," he told them, handing the easily forged document over to the nearest guard. "For services to his Lordship."

The guard looked at the parchment for several long moments, exchanged a look with his companion, and nodded. He took out a ring of keys and unlocked the door, stepping inside. Sherlock followed and was shadowed by the second guard who stood close. The first guard made a show of accessing a treasury box, retrieving coins one at a time and carefully noting the amount in the ledger. Sherlock watched it all with great interest, stepping forward at the appropriate moment to open his cloth bag and allow the guard to drop the coins into it. He thanked the guard and was about to close the bag when a commotion from the door turned their heads.

Just as planned, John stumbled into the room, sloshing wine from a chalice and looking about, completely confused.

"This is not the garderobe," he slurred, stepping closer to the second guard and wavering a bit, leaning on him for balance. The guard looked thoroughly offended.

"Indeed it is not," he said, looking to his companion for help with the situation.

Both men went to remove John from the room, but being the clever little man he was, he lost the coordination of his legs and ducked under the arms reaching for him, tottering into a table holding a variety of items of gold and silver. Trays, chalices, and artistic forgings crashed to the ground along with John, and the guards swooped in the pull him to his feet.

Sherlock tipped the contents of the treasury into his bag and quickly switched it with another unopened box.

"Good lord, man, can you not see that you are disrespecting the house of Moriarty?" Sherlock demanded heatedly, grabbing for one of John's arms. "How dare you behave so in his Lordship's home?"

"He's nothing but a drunken fool," one of the guards sneered, pushing John towards the door.

"Please allow me to remove him from the grounds myself," Sherlock said, keeping a firm hold on John's arm. "I am preparing to leave and would not want to see you disturbed from your important post."

The guards easily agreed, waving him off with a disdainful look at John. The two of them moved quickly through the halls, or as quickly as they could with John feigning drunkenness. It was with great relief that they entered the antechamber of the kitchen again, collecting Mary and being sent away with several pies by Sally. They had nearly crossed the castle grounds to the gate, lit up by torches and fires, when Sherlock's eyes drifted to a window on the second floor. He stopped when he saw a shadow in the window.

"Sherlock," John whispered impatiently. "Come _on_! We've done it, we need to leave."

"You and Mary go," he said, handing the bag of coins over to John and starting to walk back to the castle walls. "There is something I need to do."

He glanced back and saw the two forms retreating from the grounds as he reached the wall, glad they had followed his order. Looking up at the stones, his hands slid over the surface until his fingers found a hand hold. Moving swiftly and carefully, he hoisted himself up the stones until he reached the sill of her open window, heaving his body up with both hands and swinging one leg through the window. He landed heavily on the floor of her chambers and looked up to see Molly and Martha staring at him from their position in front of her looking glass.

Martha was adjusting the sheer white veil gracing the crown of Molly's head; her hair was braided and twisted up in an intricate fashion with a silver chain lacing through it and across her brow, small, twinkling amethyst hanging from the chain that matched her purple gown. A gown that was decidedly more elegant and flattering to her figure than anything he had seen her in before. Her scent drifted across the room to him and filled his mind – sweet orchids. He cleared his throat.

"Martha, leave," he said brusquely.

"Oh Sherlock," Martha said sadly. "I haven't said a word to you in two years, and this is how you say hello."

"Hello," he said, looking at her pointedly. "Now please leave."

"I haven't finished with her hair - "

"She looks the height of fashion, you've done your part very well. We can have a tearful reunion at another time, thank you."

He watched Martha exchange a look with Molly before she gathered her skirts and left the room. Smiling, he turned back to Molly and was disconcerted to see her glaring at him.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"You're angry with me," he said, deciphering her mood.

"Yes."

"What on earth for?"

"Making me a part of your crimes," she said tersely, taking one last look in the glass before turning away and walking primly to the middle of the room, clasping her hands in front of her stomach. Sherlock gave her a bemused look.

"Crimes?" he repeated.

"And using my chambers to hide," she said.

"Oh," he said, stepping further into the room. "I take it you've discovered the events of my last visit."

"Yes. And I don't want anything to do with it," she said, her chin tipping up. "And if that's the reason you're here now, I will ask you to kindly leave."

He studied her for a moment, wondering if she was only being contrary because of his teasing on their previous meeting. Coming to the conclusion that she was quite serious, his brow lowered in vexation.

"You don't agree with my actions," he said. She shook her head. "You've been doing your part, sneaking around and letting people loose from the stocks," he said slowly with a sharp look.

Molly's mouth pulled tight but she did not deny his words.

"I've been saving people," she said. "It's a bit different."

"How exactly do you figure that?"

"It's thievery, Sherlock," she said, her tone full of admonishment.

"To give the people of this county back what is rightfully theirs," he bit out, not understanding why he was forced to defend what he had done. "James Moriarty is the thief, not I."

"Then deal with him," she said, stepping forward and giving him an entreating look. "Find a way to get rid of him, but don't stoop to his level. Because I know you, I know what this is to you – it's a game, it's a bit of fun. He's dangerous, Sherlock - "

"Molly, it would best for you to stick to doctoring and stay out of things you don't understand - "

The stinging pain of her palm striking his face stunned him into silence. He worked his jaw carefully for a moment, willing the bite of the slap to go away before he looked up to meet her eyes. Eyes that were burning with anger.

"Don't you dare," she said, her voice unnaturally low. "Don't you presume to tell me what I do and do not understand, to assume what I know. You've been gone for two years…it's you who doesn't understand."

It took his mind a moment to catch up to her words, but when he did he found he was absolutely shamed and sickened.

"Has he touched you?" he questioned her, unsurprised by the anger in his voice.

"No," she told him firmly. "But not a day goes by that I do not fear it."

His temperament changed immediately and he stepped towards her, throwing propriety aside as he took her hand in both of his, lifting it to his lips and letting them linger against her skin for far longer than was proper. He thought briefly that he wouldn't mind feeling her skin against his lips every day, soft and pleasant as it was. Releasing her hand, he looked up to find her lips parted and her brow drawn in confusion.

"He will meet God," Sherlock said, placing a hand along her cheek, "before he ever lays a hand on you. I promise you that."

Molly blinked and her brow relaxed, looking up at him with wide eyes as she timidly stepped closer. His own expression turned to one of confusion when she raised herself on the tips of her toes and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, easing the place her hand had struck just moments ago. Stepping back again, he could see the pink flush in her face and along her neck and he felt the overwhelming desire to follow the flush with his lips. He would have, were it not for the knock at the chamber door.

"My lady," Martha called insistently through the door. "His Lordship requests your presence. I would not keep him waiting this night."

He felt her fingers slip from his hand as she gave him a modest smile, stepping backwards towards the door. When she had left the room, Sherlock took a deep breath, still smelling her lingering scent mixed with the smell of burning wax. He turned and strode towards the window, intent on leaving before the aroma could intoxicate him any further.

The blood in his hands pulsed a little stronger as he gripped the stones on his climb down from her window, landing on the soft ground quietly and hurrying from the castle grounds. He found John and Mary waiting for him at the edge of the forest and John gave him a look.

"Practically a sister, indeed," John said with a smile.


End file.
